Haven
by Clandestinelli
Summary: In the small town of Aldbourne, England, Eugene Roe finds that a medic's job is never done. He runs into a young Irish nurse at a makeshift aid station, offering an extra pair of hands and perhaps a few words of comfort. EugeneOC, oneshot.


Disclaimer: _Band of Brothers _belongs to the brilliant people who made it all happen -- which means, not me. Renny, however, comes from my little well of inspiration.

A/N: This is a short piece that showcases the medics of WWII, as well as the fleeting relationships soldiers tended to have during the war. Hope you like it, and if you've time, kindly review as well. Thank you.

* * *

It was a relief to fall back from the lines for a while.

None of the men particularly cared for how long they could relax, but it was a blessing nonetheless, to not be surrounded by gunfire or flames, the cries of the fearful and dying. It was always a place whispered on shivering lips in the dead of night, shoved into the dusty soil, behind crumbling stone, dry grass, fingers curled around weapons.

Oh, England.

Certainly a blessing, a fleeting respite from the war. It would be a lie to say that the country was not involved in it, but it was a considerable distance from the brutality the company had encountered in the field. Sometimes the distant sirens would wail into the skies just as the planes flew overhead, but it was safer. Never always but usually sometimes. Not safest, but it would do.

One could almost say it was a haven.

The men were sent there to wait for their replacements. E Company had been shoved into the war barely a few days ago, and already they had lost men to the cause in Carentan. The fight to take the town was brutal, and still the echoing shots of artillery rang through the air hovering around their ears, but it was a sharp contrast to the tiny town of Aldbourne, England.

It was rural, with lush trees and cottages that, under normal circumstances, would have looked remarkably pretty. But in times of war, beauty is a rarity and the pretty turn to ash, the lovely to stone and it's all smeared into grey and scarlet and pleading. England served as an area for companies to recuperate between battles as well as a place for the severely wounded to be sheltered from the harshness of war. The men of Easy Company took idea from their name and took it easy for what little time they had before being called out again.

There were some, however, that felt their work was never done.

Medic Eugene Roe had seen his first taste of the frontlines in Carentan, and that involved a hell of a lot of death and blood. He still didn't understand why he was one of the chosen field medics, regardless of his inexperience, and while he tried his best – always, always try your best – sometimes it wasn't enough, and they would die at his hands. It was hard, to bandage and to tourniquet under raining shrapnel and gunfire. But even so, he felt that there were things he could learn, not to mention supplies to replenish.

One section of the town had taken the abandoned cottages and transformed them into makeshift aid stations. The windows were open, the wind carrying the groans and the occasional cry of the wounded, and Eugene could see men and women running from one cottage to the other. Hands full of bowls, bandages, fingers stained and aprons smeared. He headed towards them, just as a young woman stumbled in her haste to get to a patient, supplies spilling out of her arms.

The young medic started, hand reaching out to catch her by the arm just as her palm took the weight of her fall against the rough ground. She swore under her breath, nodding her distracted thanks to him before tugging her arm away and scooping up the scattered rolls of bandages and tiny syringes – _autoinjectors_, he corrected – filled with what he suspected was morphine. The young nurse stood up and shot him another look before hurrying into the cottage without another word.

Eugene followed.

If it weren't for the open windows, the heavy scent of blood and death would have probably overpowered the inexperienced. But he knew it know, as much as he wished he didn't. There were a few men who seemed fine, if a little tired or a little in pain and they gave him a glance before returning to their thoughts. Eugene's eyes went to seek out the girl he had run into, though he wasn't sure why, and found her ducking behind a screened-off area.

That's where the screaming was coming fromhe thought, though the revelation unsettled him.

"_Please, God, no!_"

"Stay _still_, lad, please –"

"_Don't, stop it, stop_ –"

"Bloody hell – I can't do this without –"

Bright hazel eyes caught Eugene's green ones and flickered briefly to the Red Cross band on his arm to confirm her suspicions before barking out, "You! Get in here!"

Eugene blinked at the commanding tone in her voice and, if it wasn't for the matter of having a soldier in considerable pain, he would have found it almost amusing. She looked younger than him, after all, and –

"Don't just stand there!"

Ah, well. Time for musings later.

The medic started forward, sidestepping the grimy screens and grimacing at the sight that greeted him. Without going into detail, there was a man. There was blood. There was a _smell _and there was writhing. Lots of shouting, too, and suppose there were a few choice swearwords that accompanied "Jesus" and "Hell."

The girl shook her head, flyaway strands of auburn falling across her eyes, a weary sigh slipping past. Where were the other nurses or doctors? Why was she the only one tending to this man and the rest in the cottage? For a moment she forgot the man standing at the bedside and he watched her work, small hands fast and efficient. He barely held back a cringe as she dug her fingers into the wound – this sent the solider into new heights of screams – only to pull out what was possibly an overlooked piece of shrapnel. She grimaced. It saddened him to see a girl so young know what to do in a situation like that.

"What can I do?"

She glanced up at the American medic she had enlisted the help of. He looked like he just arrived, and for a moment she pitied that he didn't have a moment's rest before jumping into the life-saving thing again, but then her patient gave a sharp jerk, almost knocking over her supplies, and the pity was gone.

"Hold him _down._"

Without a word, Eugene stepped forward and tried to control the flailing limbs as best he could. The man twisted and arched beneath him, and he had to fight the urge to gag at the pungent odour of decay by the wound. The girl scrambled for what every medic on and off the field treasured, stabbing the syringe into the thigh – the soldier froze then relaxed with a shuddering breath as the morphine coursed through his system. Eugene straightened and looked to the young nurse across from him with a frown, catching the shift in her expression from fiercely determined to relieved, albeit weary.

"Gangrene," she murmured absently, stepping aside to pick up a bowl of warm water and a ragged cloth. "He neglected to mention it to us. We didn't catch it till this morning."

Eugene nodded, doing a routine check on the man who now gazed lazily at the ceiling, quiet and considerably more at peace than earlier. Wordlessly, he began to help the girl with her charge, deciding to save conversation for later.

* * *

They sat a little ways away from the cottage, using a few old crates as seats by the small pond that graced the town. She knelt at the muddy shore, scrubbing the blood from her hands, though he knew the stain would never truly come clean. Eugene watched her for a moment, then said, "You never told me your name."

The girl startled, glancing over her shoulder at him. She stared at him for a few moments, then allowed herself a reluctant smile, straightening from the pond's edge and moving to sit next to him. She sighed, tipping her head back to the weak sunlight for a moment then looked back to him.

"Renny."

He smiled, then. A name to the face. That was important. At the end of a war, lives would be lost and people would die, and all that was ever left for the families left behind was a name. Never a face to welcome home, always a name – or vice versa, and it was not enjoyable either way. The fields were littered with the nameless dead, faces everywhere, blank stares and frozen cries. And they would be simply another body, another soldier, another casualty.

A name and a face to go with it. Rare. Important.

"Eugene."

"I reckon you're part of the company that just arrived, aren't you?"

He sighed quietly; "Yeah, I am. Fresh from Carentan."

An apologetic wince there. "I heard about that. I'm sorry about... in there. I didn't mean to get cross, it's just –" She blew a strand of hair from her eyes, frowning. "It has to be done fast, you know? It's harder on your own. But I have a feeling you know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Another smile. He nodded absently in reply, thinking ahead. She was accented – he tried to place it. Somewhere from the north? He hadn't been that far up yet. But then he noticed her hair, and then it was a giveaway.

"You're from Ireland, aren't you?"

Renny blinked at the abrupt change in conversation, then shrugged as she brushed off the memories that threatened to swamp her. "Yes. Dublin." Her voice had changed; soft, clipped. He had hit something.

"You're a little far from home, aren't you? What about your family?" He kept his voice low, gentle. He saw the change in her, but she was barely grown in his eyes, and that came with an unexplainable need to _protect. _If he had a sister...

"Dead," came the short answer. "The Luftwaffe flew over Dublin. I came down here to help; there's nothing left back home."

He almost regretted asking it, murmuring an apology, to which she brushed off with a wave of her hand. She was young. You saw a lot of that in war, the children fighting a grown man's conflict because they were spirited, they believed the old lie of _dulce et decorum est_, they felt they had a cause. But it was hard to believe in one after seeing so much death.

"You seem a little young to be out here," he remarked quietly, looking over the town instead of to her. Eugene saw her shift next to him, pulling the ragged ribbon from her hair to let the auburn locks tumble free. They effectively hid her face, and he suspected that was her aim as she replied brazenly –

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm nineteen, I'm old _enough._"

He shook his head, looking back at her. Nineteen. Barely five years younger than he was. He hadn't been in the war at that age, but she had thrown herself into it. And there she was, sticking her hands into dying men, their blood staining her fingers and nails. It would never truly wash off.

"You're too young to die."

Renny snapped her face around to face him, surprised. He thought she would deliver a retort of some sort, but her expression only softened into a sad smile, resigned. She nodded once to acknowledge his words and murmured in reply –

"So are you."

The truth of that hung between them, nurse and medic. Soldiers saw enough death on the field, but the medics saw more of it. They saw it through, life to injury to the last breath, and it was something that would haunt them beyond the battles. It was a burden that they all shared, and wordlessly, he touched her hand in gentle reassurance. Instinct.

Their hands were the same. Stained with the memories of the courageous and the valiant, the craven and the children. The young Irishwoman froze in momentary surprise before turning her hand under his, callused fingers lacing with callused fingers. A gentle squeeze, a common understanding. Even the chaste kiss shared was familiar, the same memories and sorrow that came with the job and the war.

But some things were untouched, and even though pleas to God and angered words fell past the lips of every man and woman who served in the war, these were untainted. She was still young, there was still a shred of sweet innocence in her kiss before the bitterness of reality washed it away.

And they savoured it, because who knew when they would die? Who knew if the next bullet was meant for him, and if the Luftwaffe decided to come after those who had escaped them before?

England was a haven, for what little time they had, and they kept it that way.

**FIN.**


End file.
